Page 114 of Devil's Vows

“Mother Lucia got killed after we left the convent in Potenza. Her death was one of a few in northern Italy, all aimed at convents. They’ve whitewashed it as refugee or immigrant crimes, but I know better. She always erased our tracks, as best she could, changing names, sourcing new identities. I think even Randazzo lost track of us at some point, but somehow, they always caught up.” I take a deep breath; it’s now or never. “And now I suspect they are after a friend of mine, but she’s disappeared. I need your help finding her.Please.”

There’s no mistaking my plea, but the office turns quiet as the men digest my words, and eventually, I can’t take it anymore. I reach for the vodka, toss some back, and this time I’m ready for the burn. I don’t wince, I don’t blink; I let it flush down my throat in a satisfying burst of heat.

A smirk plays in the corner of Ivan’s mouth as he watches me, but I don’t care. Let him watch. He’s already seen me at my most exposed, at my most vulnerable, and I gave him access to all of me, even the most private parts.

I finish the drink, and the buzz hits my bloodstream as if I poured it straight into a conduit to my veins.

Ivan reaches for the bottle. “A top off?”

“No, thank you.” In my books, we’re done here.

He pours himself another drink, and Yuri holds out his glass for more.

“So you claim you’re a fugitive and not a spy?” Ivan asks, his eyes on me over the rim of his glass as he takes a slow sip.

“Yes!” For fuck’s sakes. What more does he want?

“Prove it.”

58

GABI

“Prove it? How?” I say, gaping. Don’t they get the urgency?Chiara. Any other girl trapped in Randazzo’s network since he died.

He pulls the laundry basket closer and studies the content. “You’ll have to figure that out. Let’s see what we have here, shall we? For starters, a burner phone?—”

“So I could call my brothers in case you were a madman!”

Yuri chuckles.

Ivan smiles. “That is debatable and totally dependent on the shit I need to deal with on a specific day. Let’s just say you’ve only seen my good side because it’s been out on display.”

I huff, the vodka roaring to make an appearance now. “Fuck that. I’ve seen you with your girls, and that’s why I stepped into this horrid bombed-out mausoleum, knowing you wouldn’t—You wouldn’t?—”

The words don’t come out.Hurt me.There’s still time for that.

Ivan stills where he’s been pulling something else from the basket, and his expression becomes unreadable, his cold gaze on me somehow softening.

“I’m working on the bombed-out part, but it’s kinda hard to hire contractors from the outside, you know, having to explain the bullet holes and so on.” He pulls my fairy tale from the basket, not breaking off our intense stare. “I agree it’s garish, though, properdorogo-bogato, but what do you expect? Lavish Russian kitsch was all the rage for people fresh out of a communist regime where they had nothing. It was my mom’s taste. We can renovate to yours later. Once we’ve patched up all the bullet holes.”

He says it as if I’m staying.

My heart’s anxious beating seems to slow down two paces. I have no idea why…he might not hurt me, but a quick death comes in many quiet ways.

Ivan has my fairy tale in his hands and is flipping through the pages. “What is the significance here?”

“It’s just my story. Please don’t destroy it.”

“When did you make it?” he asks, pausing on a double spread I can’t see from here.

“I worked on it intensely for a year when I was nineteen. It was one of my graduation projects. For fine art.”

Ivan closes the book, but gently. “It will go to the lab for testing. They will do nothing but test for poison.”

“And that after I let your girls touch the illustrations?—”

“Poison is as much an art as this beautiful book of yours, Gabriella, and a Russian specialty. I’m not taking any chances.”